


trisha walker's christmas special

by peradi



Category: Jessica Jones (TV)
Genre: Child Abuse, Christmas, Drug Abuse, Eventual Fluff, F/F, Lesbians, Mentioned Noncon, child stars, sap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-09 00:04:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5518064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peradi/pseuds/peradi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The tale of Jessica Jones and Trish Walker, told in five Christmases.</p>
            </blockquote>





	trisha walker's christmas special

**i.**

It's the Patsy Walker Christmas Special after-party, and Patsy Walker is high. 

Jessica's fourteen. Her family is six months in the ground -- long enough for worms to be dining out on their bones, as she thinks in her more macabre moments -- and she's already learned how to recognise the signs of too much cocaine. 

There's just-enough cocaine, of course. Dorothy knows about that, doesn't care about that: it perks her child up, gives her a better smile, means she can rehearse for hours on end, never tiring; means that she doesn't do silly things like trying to get a boyfriend or a new agent, because Mommy Dearest is the one with more of that white powder, snowdust lined up with credit cards, hoovered up with hundred-dollar bills, never sharing straws, that could lead to Hep C or AIDS or one of those not-so family friendly diseases. 

But this is too much. This isn't Dorothy Walkers Go-Go sparkle, mother-sanctioned, fun for all the family, cure for what ails you. This is backalley gangbang shit, snorted with boys and girls with big black eyes and glitter in their hair. This is Patsy Walker, hair bright as blood and fake as her Mom's tits. 

It's not her problem, not really, and Jessica's working on the apathy thing. She's dark hair and white skin and Wednesday Addams, the shadow to the brightness of Patsy, the bring-her-out orphan girl, happy ending Christmas miracle and it is all such bullshit she could vomit. 

She doesn't. She has a swig of her drink. 

The Special -- always merits capital letters, it's an institution as much as the Muppets Christmas Carol or seeing Santa at the mall -- is done and dusted, and Patsy's signed the right number of autographs, posed with a couple of Make A Wish Kids (heads shiny and bald as far off stars, the smell of the terminal high around them, let me tell you death has a smell, the slow decay of young limbs) and then Dorothy curved her into the cast party and here they are. 

Here they are. 

Jessica's in the corner. She's got a mug of mulled wine spiked with vodka, and the kids around her are fireworks. Drug addled messes. They've got mothers that are a little like Dorothy but not as good -- that's why they're not Patsy Walker. 

Returning to the subject in hand. 

Patsy Walker is high. 

Her pupils are huge. Black-hole deep. Swallowing up every fragment of iris and there you are, she's a mess, she's a shooting falling star, she's a wreck. She's going to burn up so beautiful one day and --

Jessica should hate her. She should. But she doesn't.

( _I don't need saving)_

Patsy's shoulders are stabbing at the torso of some hulking lighting assistant. His big hands cup the spurs of her hips. Dorothy's nowhere to be seen, which is rare -- maybe she's in the toilets for another line (unlike her daughter, Dorothy has no one to regulate her intake.) Maybe she's getting head in an alleyway (oh yes, those interns work hard for the connections).

Either way. 

She'll be back soon. She'll see black-eyed Patsy slutting it up, and she'll smile her tight cold smile, and she'll  _hurt_ Patsy, one way or another. Maybe pinches on the undersides of her tits, ruler on the back of the legs -- or something less obvious, birth control switched to the ones that give her cramps; coke cut with broken glass. 

She's never done the latter. Threatened to, but never done. Patsy had said, once, as they lounged in the bathroom:  _she won't do it; I'm her cashcow. Can't have my nose all bloodied._

And Jessica had thought --  _you don't know with her, you don't know at all, a woman like eyes like that would do anything_.

She didn't say. 

She does, however, venture out from her corner. Dodges around the tangle of bodies. There's an orgy developing in one corner, three girls and two boys mouthing at each other like starved things. 

"Hey, Patsy," she says. 

The lightning technician -- Conrad, that's his name -- flashes her a white smile. His teeth are very big in a golden lantern jaw, and his hair is surfer-yellow. His hips give an obscene little thrust as Mariah Carey croons in the background, telling all and sundry who she wants for Christmas. 

"Dude, back off. She's off her tits."

"Hey, hey -- she came onto me," and Jessica doesn't doubt that, not really, but Conrad's hands are tight on Patsy's bones. Patsy's chin is tilted back, swan-white of her throat quivering with the hammer of her pulse. 

Conrad plants a kiss on the side of that neck. Jessica's lips skin back.

"Don't be a dick."

"Jealous?" he says and cups Patsy's breast in his right hand and before he can do whatever he was planning -- squeeze, expose, pretty picture for the baby paps -- Jessica sneaks a hand down, between the poke of Patsy's ass and the bulge of his crotch.

She  _squeezes_.

All the colour slides from his face. He makes a sound like a deflated balloon. 

"You're going to go right now. You're not going to turn back. If I see you again, I'll tear them off."

 

\--

 

Everyone's so enthralled with their own debauchery that no one notices Jessica sneaking Patsy out, carrying her like a Disney Princess, spill of hair like fire over her forearm. She's half-asleep. Cocktail of coke and booze and God knows what else. 

It's Christmas Eve. Back in the hotel room, there's tinsel and a tree and chocolates on the pillow. Kids everywhere await the trot of reindeer hooves on the roof. 

In the morning, there will be more cameras. Visits to more dying kids. Ostentatious presents given to Jessica Jones, the miracle child, the living embodiment of Patsy Walker's mythos -- kind and sweet and always generous. Give to the less fortunate. 

But right now, Jessica sits with Trish. 

 

**ii.**

"Oh you are  _kidding me_."

Jessica tears the rest of the package open, shakes the garment out.

It's a white latex catsuit, cut obscenely low -- probably from some fetishwear shop in the skankier corners of Hell's Kitchen.

Actually, scratch that. The skanks in Hell's Kitchen have better taste. This sort of exuberant, extravagant kinkery only comes to the uber-rich, the sort of person who spends their days making money and their nights getting their nipples pierced by some Thai ladyboy. 

Trish keeps a straight face for precisely one second before howling with laughter. Her shoulders shake, her hands clasp her lips like she can keep the sound inside and she hunches over. 

Patsy Walker giggled. She tittered. She never laughed like this: like a dog choking. Ugly and raw and  _human_.

Something foreign and warm stirs in Jessica's stomach. Without knowing quite why -- later she'll blame the wine -- she reaches over and strokes Trish's hair. 

"Merry Christmas, you dick," she says.

Trish grabs her hand, wrings it tight. "Try it on!"

"No!"

 

\--

 

After another bottle of some shitty wine (Jessica had been put in charge of buying the alcohol, something that Trish is clearly regretting) Jessica relents and wriggles into the costume. 

It takes her half an hour, a cloud of baby powder and a string of swearwords long enough to knot the Vatican up -- but finally she emerges, in a suit that looks like someone's poured a vat of cream on her and let it set. 

You can see her  _nipples_.

Jessica flings a thunderhead of a glower at Trish. Trish, however, seems more intent on her wine. 

"At least look!"

Trish does so slowly, in stages, starting at her feet and moving to her thighs, stomach, tits and finally her face in a crawl that has Jessica going hot and cold all over.

She's going to puke.

(it's just the costume, it's too tight its's --)

For a moment, they just stare at each other. Jessica's boobs are sweating, nudged to new and frightening heights; her cleavage is just under her chin.

"Shit," says Trish.

"Right? It looks shite. I'm going to get changed."

She wheels about, strides back towards the bathroom."

That's the last time Trish tries to get her into a costume.

 

 

**iii.**

 

"Hi Jess! It's me. Just wondering how you are -- haven't heard from you in ages! Anyway, call me back. If you're in town it would be nice to meet up."

 

\--

 

"Hi Jessica! Me again. It's almost Christmas Eve! I'm assuming that we're not meeting up? It would be nice to hear anyway. I'm a little worried."

 

\--

 

"Hi Jessssss. Merry Christmas you whore! I love you, even if you don't have the fucking courtesy to get back to me you massive  _dick_."

 

\--

 

"Jessica? Uh. Ignore the last message, I was really drunk. Well. I still am drunk. But I love you, I love you and I'm  _worried_. Call me back? Please?"

 

\--

 

Killgrave plays the messages over and over. 

"Tell me you hate her."

"I hate her."

"Tell me you love me more."

"I love you more."

He stamps a kiss to her forehead. "Now, open your present."

Her hands do not shiver at all as she lifts them to his shirt. 

 

**iv.**

 

"Okay, okay  _enough_ ," snaps Jessica, brandishing a spoon. "No one is going to be poisoned.  _No one_."

Malc eyes the chicken like it's about to explode. "How long's it been in for?"

"Hour and a half. I timed." Trish dances in from the kitchen. "Jessica's a great cook. She cooks for me all the time -- I'm getting fat."

She pokes her washboard abs, pokes her pink tongue out, and skitters upstairs to finish getting dressed

"So, uh," says Malc. "How long have you two been --" 

If looks could kill, Malc would be a line on the ground. As it is, he just beams happily up at Jessica, impervious to her attempts to murder him with her laser eyes. 

"We're not," Jessica says, her voice a flat slab of stone.

"Huh. Well. You should be."

"Oh  _fuck you_ ," says Jessica, sticking a cake-mix covered spoon in her mouth, biting down hard. 

It splinters. 

 

**v.**

 

Kilgrave has been in his grave for eighteen months. He's wormfood. He's gone and dead and he'll never hurt her -- or anyone else -- ever again. 

But she still dreams. She dreams of a purple pit with no bottom. She dreams of falling for ten thousand years. She dreams of bones, the wet slap of blood in her face, the crunch of bones, the screams of girls who were not strong enough to break free. 

She dreams that her hands are manacled to the walls. She dreams that he starves her until her red heart beats through her skin. 

The nightmares do not care that it is Christmas. They grasp her by the throat and shake her like a dog, and she wakes in the wee hour of the morning.

Her sheets are rank with sweat. She kicks up out of her bed, steps up to the window, brushes the curtains aside. 

It's been snowing. A heavy white blanket has done the one thing that no superhero ever could: cleaned up Hell's Kitchen. It's all very still and silent, the moon huge and full, long silver shadows slope across the streets, quavering in the wind.

 

 

For want of something to do, Jessica goes to the kitchen and tucks into a box of mince pies. Once upon a time, she would have turned to vodka -- but with Trish down for Christmas she's making an effort to stay sober.

"Can't sleep?"

"No."

"Dreams again?"

"Something like that."

Trish presses her palm to the spike of Jessica's hip, her fingers flared open over the other woman's abdomen. Jessica leans into the touch, the fever-warmth of Trish's body.

She can't. She _shouldn't_.

It's four in the morning on Christmas Day.

Everyone has boundaries they put up to protect themselves from the enormity of existence. Everyone has lines that they keep drawn tight, clamping down feeling and memory, building the fragile structure of self upon deception.

Everyone has those and, at some point, everyone must lose them.

Jessica relaxes back against Trish, an insistent push of her shoulders into Trish's breasts. Trish's breath catches, hard and sharp, and that's it -- Jessica does what she has been wanting to do since she was fourteen.

She turns around, and presses her mouth to Trish's.

The kiss is frantic. The boundaries do not just break; they shatter, tumble to the ground like Jericho, and the women kiss on the only still point of the universe. 

 

\--

 

The morning finds them naked, entwined on Jessica's narrow bed. 

"Well. Merry Christmas. Love you," says Jessica, mouthing at Trish's collarbone. 

"Merry Christmas," says Trish. "I hope you know -- I'm never letting you go now."

"Good," says Jessica, and that foreign warmth is back, suffusing her body, and her smile is as wide as the world. 


End file.
